Wednesday, February 26

I’ve gotten used to sleeping with my curtains peeled back ever so slightly. I can see a little rectangle of sky when I lay in bed. In the morning the sun nudges my shoulder as I scramble to wake up and start my day. It’s become such a comfort to see my little corner of the sky each night. My black curtains sweep across the entire window, making my room a fortress. But with that small little crack for me to peer up and out of, I can watch the night move and change. I love feeling so small as I lay in my oversized bed. I love feeling so connected even in the detached moments of half sleep.

The best part is the tree. The tree that is sturdy and stable in a way I know I cannot be right now. I can’t explain why seeing that tree makes me less afraid of the dark or why it makes me feel that everything will be ok if I breathe a little deeper. I’m not sturdy. I’m as looped and changing as my record player, singing melancholy song after melancholy song and the gothic clouds mold themselves across the sky and peek at me from behind the arms of my ever present tree.

Wednesday, February 19

These streets that twist and turn in front of my
rearview like I left you that night last spring-
twisted in your sheets, heart breaking, a ring
without a hand to hold its diamond high-
lead me down the same road, the same old sky.
But now my car is empty and I sing
our love song in silence, my lips that cling
to the last taste of you and our last sigh.
The suitcase skyline holds me here although
I try to pack your smell under my bras
and travel size shampoo. But I can't drive
away, can't seem to drive your scent below.
The wheel circles round all of my faux pas.
Without you here all I can do is drive.

Friday, February 14

1234
12:34
A long day rings in a longer night.
It's hard to speak when the voice
squeaking out of your mouth isn't your own.
Are my poems working? Are they worth it?
I'm not writing about war. I'm not writing about Europe.
I'm writing about nostalgia, the taste of him
running along my collar bone.
I'm writing about love, lust, sex.
We can't all be Dickinson. Some of us are more Neruda.
Some of us can't shake Venus off of our shoulders.

1238
12:38
Too much culture can quiet a roar,
reduce it to a barely palpable huff at
a dinner table at an awkward family party.
Intimidation is the most powerful contraception.
I'll never write like them, I'll never paint.
Look at them float their words into my ear
like gifts while I scramble to remember what
rhymes with orange. Do I look like a writer?
Can I even fill the remainder of this line?
One more to make an even stanza. Cop out.

1249
12:49
She says to me, people want to hear the
shitty things that happened to you. She's right.
People want to hear about love, lust, sex.
People want to hear the memories I can tell them,
full of MY voice, MY thoughts, My words and sounds,
not theirs. I cannot be them. They cannot be me.
Screw the deadlines I set for myself, the lines I
draw in my own metaphysical sand. There are only
so many words you can surround yourself with
a day until your own words start to become muted.
CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW.

1253
12:53
Is it broken? The hammer? Did it fall?
Have words coaxed the words from their mousetraps?
Is the Great Wall of China truly visible from space,
or is it only visible in China when you stand
bashing your fists against its blocks?
We will give it a try, as always. Break it out.
Thom is talking, tall and true. Piper pleads and pines.
His hands find my hip, his eyes flash honey.
I'm 14, kissed for the first time. I'm 22, reflecting in my bed.
I can hear me now.

Tuesday, February 11

The night of velvet and fractured glass
bled on for months. Who needed
sleep when you were on call for
a fire department of a boy's body.

The first night, sneaking through the garage
riddled with mannequins and the
promise of panting glowing on his cheekbones
as he led me through the dark
to the sheets, darker still-
swimming with his smell.

He touched me first. I shivered.
He gripped my hands. I exhaled.

My breathing struggled to synch
itself back with my heart,
the uneven pace of both in a relay race.
Breathing and beating elbow each other,
begging for first. Begging. Please.
All at once, breathing made sense again.
Fumbling turned to fluid for the first
time in my sixteen years;
a preview of nights to come,
years after the house was sold and
the mannequins were dressed and undressed
time and time again.

Thursday, February 6

All images via Pinterest

Sometimes this even means you have to stop looking up what is giving you pain. Stop creeping on people who hurt you, stop reading words of someone you can't have, delete your facebook or other profiles for a while. Don't torment someone with your presence, or torment yourself by keeping them in your life even if it's just a virtual life. Everything will heal gracefully. Something I was thinking about while I was working on my novel and talking with my sister about a friend of hers being sick. Sometimes you have to let go of what you've done that you thought was a mistake. Just learn from it and let it go.

Wednesday, February 5

-I want to fill my room with a bunch of candles, all burned down to different widths and lengths.

-I have the hardest time spelling the word recipe. (I'll be honest about spelling it wrong here the first two times)

- Just because I'm an English major does not mean I don't have a plan. And I know that I should be used to hearing the question about what I intend to do with my major, but it does not get any less discouraging with every time people ask me. Then you throw on telling me that getting a Masters in Creative Writing will do nothing for me. Thanks a heap. Excuse me for doing what I love and working my ass off.

- Every time I hear Lana del Rey singing I calm down instantly. That voice is like my own blood rushing through my ears.

-Holding out for a British man, I've decided. Or Leo Dicaprio. Whoever comes first.
- I feel nothing like that romantic girl I used to be. I thought I'd always be her.
-I don't miss that girl much.

Sunday, February 2

I know these are all words you've heard
a thousand times. Believe me, I know.
But don't let them hang in the air like frozen
snowflakes on a translucent phone wire.

Be open.
Open to change, open to growth
open to forever and open to now.
Most of all be open to yourself,
being who you are meant to be,
who the world needs you to be,
who you are afraid to become.

Be fun.
Go out and breathe fresh air,
play on a swing set because
you can. Make jokes with strangers
and smile at them. Let them know
it's ok to laugh, it's ok to let go,
it's ok to have fun without apologizing.

Be wild.
Kiss a random stranger,
wear the shirt you feel best in,
even if your mother hates it.
Dance all night and sleep all day,
continue the dancing in your dreams.
Let your hair tangle in the wind.

Be free.
Be. Breathe. Taste the world around you.
Walk through a crowded place
without faking a phone call.
Drive until you reach the top of a mountain,
get out and become the king of the world.
Don't be ruled by the weight of your own body.

Be. Be. Be. Be.
Be unstoppable and never settle.
Never let anyone tell you not
to listen to a cliche. Never give
anyone the satisfaction of tearing you down.
You're better than that.
You're better than them.

Saturday, February 1

February already. February is my least favorite month of the year. It's the hangover month: Christmas is long past, resolutions are starting to fail a bit, spring is still about 6 weeks away, everything is grey and smoggy. At least it's so short!

Life has been pretty ok the past few days, though. Coven ended wonderfully (Spoiler alert.. I'm the new Supreme) and I watched all of American Horror Story: Asylum in two days. So. Yesterday was productive. Whatever. I'll be productive later today after my nap. It all evens out. It's been a hard week, I needed a small break.

Today the roommates and I went up Emigration Canyon for brunch and honestly there was no better way to welcome in this month. If you get to Utah or are from here, go to this canyon and get lost in this breathtaking drive. My roommate Brooke is a runner so this morning she drove up to the top of the canyon, parked her car, ran home, and we drove her back to her car and ate at Ruth's Diner. Guys. I had biscuits and gravy. No. The best. Forever.

If you know me you know how much I love canyons. I feel so much more settled and grounded when I am twisting through those roads and getting hugged between two goliath mountains. I drove Brooke up to her car and drove back down the canyon alone. I turned on some Mumford and Sons and my car became this insular world in the drifting snowflakes. It was so peaceful and so so serene. It was such a spiritual moment for me. I felt so connected to everything around me. I don't know how anyone can feel truly alone in nature. Seeing those groups of trees in small gossiping clusters on the mountainside feels like home. Something felt right and ok in that moment. I will make it through, it said. It was much needed. I've been needing some reassurance lately after the crap kebob that was the last few weeks. But those are so far behind now, and I'm ready to press onward, even if it is into February.

Good things about February!

This is the month in which I reread The Book Thief. I can only reread it once a year because feels and this is when I do it. Whenever you feel unhappy, go huddle up with a favorite book. The characters will greet you like old friends. (More thoughts about The Book Thief here.)

I'm also rereading Gatsby this month. I read the book a couple of times a year by the time the year is over but February is when I really sit down and concentrate on it instead of just picking it up and starting at a random page. (More thoughts here.)

I'll probably rewatch The Tudors on Netflix. I've been rewatching it every February for some reason and I see no reason to stop now. (Seeing a pattern here? February blows = surround yourself with favorite things.)

It's almost spring and almost my birthday! Come on March, roar in like the lion you are!

Ummm February is short? That's a good thing.

Cold, grey days mean more time inside writing. I'm gonna finish the first draft of my novel this month!

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Lovely Readers

words

Confess to yourself in the deepest hour of the night whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write. Dig deep into your heart, where the answer spreads its roots in your being, and ask yourself solemnly, 'Must I write?'

-Rainer Maria Rilke

Vitality shows in not only the ability to persist but the ability to start over.

-F. Scott Fitzgerald

That is part of the beauty of all literature. You discover that your longings are universal longings, that you're not lonely and isolated from anyone. You belong.

-F. Scott Fitzgerald

There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.

-Ernest Hemingway

Study broadly and without fear.

-John Green

Writing is hard. Not as hard as not writing. Not writing is torturous, bloody, chaotic, and a gruesome winless battle. A writer who writes, knows peace, lives connected to truth. Not writing is ache, betrayal, death of the soul and imagination.